


prophecy girl

by sacrelidge



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: (and a little horny), Alternate Universe, Attempted Murder, Buffyverse - Freeform, Buffyverse au, Enemies to Lovers, Frank Morrison - Freeform, Ghostfrank - Freeform, Graphic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multiple times, Serial Killers, Vampire AU, Vampire Hunter AU, danny is an asshole (of course), danny johnson - Freeform, frank is the slayer, kind of, murder scenes, somewhat canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29173920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrelidge/pseuds/sacrelidge
Summary: Frank Morrison never asked to become the chosen one, and Danny Johnson is just his chosen pain-in-the-ass.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Faith Lehane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knifecharm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifecharm/gifts), [junkertown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkertown/gifts).



> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my little fic! For updates or any other fic related news I may have, check out my Twitter @slashernudes (the l is a capital i). I hope you enjoy the result of many late nights, and thank you again for reading.

_Into every generation, a slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number._ **_She is the Slayer._ **

The snow had begun to settle over Ormond as the grey dreary winter set in, and Frank Morrison had been dead for two weeks. He didn’t know how he had pulled it off, but when you’re playing god’s favorite he supposed it came with a few perks. Besides, there was a strange sense of catharsis in the way he could speed down the highway knowing for certain no one could catch him after what he did. 

Frank never asked to be the ‘Chosen One’. He never asked to be swept away on some ‘holier-than-thou’ 90’s hero show style adventure, and- though he’d never admit it- knew that he didn’t deserve it either. It didn’t matter what big holy force was in charge of the way this world turned, Frank was the farthest thing from some divine soldier. Hell, he and Jesus both knew it wasn’t very “God’s #1 Hero” to be going 20 over the speed limit down highway two in a stolen truck with expired Montana plates on both ends.

The sound of the pavement crushing under the weight of the truck began to slow as the car sputtered to a very ill-timed stop. Thankfully he’d made it back into city limits, and with any luck, he’d find some shithole to squat in for the night. On the not-so-thankful side, however, the sun had already set and night fell over Ormond’s quaint (yet somewhat disturbing) townscape. He figured he could make it on foot to some one-star motel with the world’s shittiest locks to crash until the sun comes up- assuming nothing would go bump in the night tonight. But Frank, knowing his luck, knew he’d have to fight for a good night's rest tonight. 

After pacing through Ormond for what felt like forever, he found himself standing in the street in front of the only nightclub in a two hudnred-mile radius. _THE BRONZE._ “What a shithole.” Frank mutters to himself, before flashing his ID and making his way into the sweaty, cramped dance floor. 

It’s all a blur, a (nowhere near) euphoric mass of limbs and bodies, the faint sound of Deee-Lite and Madonna trailing behind Frank while he pushes through the crowd, hoping to find the bar (or just anyone drunk enough to not notice the random teenager bumming their drinks). He locks eyes with a blonde girl in the furthest corner booth, clearly, a few drinks in, but not enough to lose all self-awareness, helping her recognize the somewhat lanky guy who _looks_ like a cigarette eyeing her down from across the club. She flashes him a smile that screams ‘I’ve got no better option’ and that’s enough of a cue for Frank to start working his magic for a few free drinks. 

“Hey!” 

“Hey.” Frank nods to the empty seats next to her. She scooches over with a darling “Go ahead!”

“Do I… know you from somewhere?” She leans in a little too close, studying Frank's face. The familiarity in his eyes, the facial expression that she knows she’s seen before but she’s too drunk to put the corner piece on the almost finished puzzle. 

“High school? I think we both had Biology with Mr. Hammond in our senior year.” She continued to stare in response, her brow furrowing, Frank figuring that she’s rummaging through a Rolodex of ex-boyfriends and almost-prom-dates. Then, she leaned back, eyes lighting up, and she’s thinking she’s the next Sherlock Fucking Holmes now. 

“You’re Julie's ex-boyfriend, aren’t you?”

Oh shit.

“You asshole.”

 _Oh shit._ There go his free drinks for the night. She spends what feels like five minutes pushing herself to her feet, going off on some drunken tangent about how Frank was an asshole and Julie deserved so much better, the usual things he used to hear straight from Jules herself. It almost made him miss the shrill telling-off he would always get in the middle of one of Julie's parties after hitting on some popular girl with a shitty haircut and nicotine addiction. 

He's drowned most of the ramble out until he sees the girl, whose name he now realizes he never even bothered to remember, reach down for her half-empty glass and toss whatever was left at Frank's face. 

"What the _fuck?_ " With a triumphant huff, she slams the glass back down and starts to make her way out of the club, trailed by a very pissed off, still unfortunately sober Frank. What they both don't notice is the unfamiliar face haunting behind them on their way out of the club.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You're lucky you didn't spill a whole glass or you'd be dead!"

"Are you trying to get in my pants or something? Is that it? You're just so desperate to fuck your ex-girlfriend's best friend, aren't you!" 

She probably couldn't remember Julie's last name while sober.

"I just wanted a drink or two, Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah, Sure." She replies with a scoff, turning away from Frank only to slam into the figure that followed them both out of the club. 

"Dude, watch where you're going for fucks sake."

He doesn't respond, only grabbing her arm with enough force to jolt her backward. 

"Hey I'm not interested, asshole. And I've got pepper spray in my purse!"

"All the pepper's going to do is add more flavor when I bleed you dry." He replied with a slow, suspiciously southern drawl.

By now, Frank was starting to show as much concern as the girl in the grip of the man. 

"Get your hands off her freak!" Frank shouted, pulling the small switchblade out from his pocket. The man tossed the girl to the side, with enough force to knock her out cold for the time being. 

"You lookin' to dance, asshole?"

Frank took the man's non-existent response as the go-ahead to charge at him full force, swinging his arm back only to be met with searing pain on the side of his face, and the cold, wet feeling of the pavement slamming against his skin.

"Wow, you sure are off your game," The man mocked. " _Slayer._ "

He spits out the last word like it left a sour taste in his mouth, and Frank's face recoils in anger (and partial disgust) at the mention of the word. He hauls himself onto his feet, Bracing to get hit again but making sure to pull his jacket back enough to show the stake lodged into the waistband of his jeans before the man could get another blow in.

"Well, is that a stake in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

Frank didn't laugh. Instead, he silently lunged at the man again, this time with enough force to knock him to the ground. "We can either do this the easy way," The man attempted to overtake Frank, only to be slammed against the pavement again. "Or the hard way. Your choice." 

The man grabbed the collar of Frank's shirt and pulled him to the ground, switching weight enough to straddle Frank. 

"So you chose the hard way." Before he could move, the man grabbed a tuft of bleach blonde hair and slammed Frank's head into the pavement. 

The next thing Frank knew, the ringing of his ears were accompanied by the slow "dun dun dun dun dun" coming from a car stereo. As he came to, he realized he was in the passenger seat of a car that certainly wasn't his.

**_Tumble outta bed and I stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition_ **

As his surroundings slowly started to come into focus, he realized who was driving the car. The dick from before. 

**_And yawn and stretch and try to come to life_ **

Frank pulled the stake out of his pants, hovering it over the man's chest. 

"Pull the fucking car over, _now._ " 

**_Jumpin in the shower and the blood starts pumpin'_ **

"Well good morning to you too, sunshine."

**_Out on the street, the traffic starts jumpin'_ **

With that, the man slams Franks head into the dashboard, knocking him unconscious again. 

**_With folks like me on the job from nine to five!_ **

The snow had begun to settle over Ormond, and Frank Morrison was about to have a very, very long night.


	2. When She was Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stolen car, a tattered notebook, and a slender, white mask. (And some 80's girl-pop anthems)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So sorry for the long wait on this one. And a very special thank you to Hundur for helping me trudge through this chapter :') I hope you all enjoy :)

Danny Johnson had never claimed to be a good person. Sure, he had his ups and downs, but most people’s down moments didn't involve the brutal murder and blood-draining of any given Roseville resident on a Wednesday night. He didn't kill for the thrill of murder- he killed for the chase. It was almost like he got off on the adrenaline rush of writing the front-page story on a murder he knew all too much about. 

**_THE ROSEVILLE MURDERS,_** _a possible crime of passion? Revenge? The stab wounds themselves resemble the fervent rage of an impulse kill, yet every step seems so carefully premeditated. Will the killer ever be caught? Watch tonight as we go deeper than ever before into the spree that shocked the nation._

Tap tap tap. the sound of Danny's pen tapping against the edge of his laptop, the nearly three-year-old CTV special broadcast being the only thing illuminating the musty motel room Danny had taken shelter in. Newspapers lined every window, his temporary fix to the permanent sunlight problem he seemed to have. 

_ Tap tap tap.  _ There was something about the way everyone talked about what he did in Roseville that left a stinging, bitter aftertaste in the back of his throat. It wasn't good enough. He needed to do... more. 

The only problem was, there's not much a journalist with bloodlust could do to make a big impact in the media. An hour-long CTV special that grandmothers across Canada would fall asleep to isn't the big bang he'd wanted to leave Roseville with. That's the thought process that left Danny standing outside in a foot of snow in fuck-all nowhere Alberta, peering into the window of a quaint little home from across the street. 

His plan this time was messy, impulsive. It was unlike him to just rush into anything, especially something this important to him. But what did he have to lose? The people chasing after him were losing his trail and he didn't have much of a trail to show for it now. He  _ needs _ this.

The people inside the home aren't important to him- not in that sense. He didn't care to tirelessly spend his days searching workplace files, stalking bars and drug stores waiting to learn every little detail about who these people were this time around; He'd left the tattered little notepad in the car. Danny ran his fingers over the delicate curvature of the bone-white mask, the one thing he always made certain to keep clean. He'd always hated having to wash messy bloodstains out of the mask at night. It seemed like a waste.

_ He made direct eye contact with the man he had hogtied on the kitchen table as he gently peeled the mask off of his face, looking down into the eyes of the screaming caricature in his hand. 'You got a stain on it.' He was almost stoic in the way he lifted the mask to his mouth and ran his tongue up the mouth of the mask, smearing whatever blood he didn’t catch up to the cheek- making sure not to break eye contact with the soon-to-be statistic he had wrapped up on the table. _

Danny had made his way into the house now, making sure the janky security camera hanging off their front patio roof caught a glimpse of the mask he loved so dearly. 

_ 'I think you and I both know just how hard it is to clean blood off of something so crisp. Am I right, Franklin?' Franklin, the man in question, was covered in a mix of sweat and blood (and probably piss), staining the nearly perfect pinstripe button up his wife picked out for him to wear to work that day. It's a shame really, but laundry was the least of Franklin's problems right now.  _

He had plunged the knife in a seventh time (for good measure, he says) before cocking the girl's head to the side and pulling the now damp turtleneck she was wearing down to her collarbone, fully exposing her neck. 

_ Danny pulled the small headphones over his ears, letting Franklin's muffled sobs get drowned out by the cassette tape he's carried around since Roseville.  _ **_'All day I think of him! Dreamin’ of him constantly'_ ** _ Danny hummed to himself as he carved into the man below him.  _ **_'I’m crazy mad for him, he’s crazy mad for me!'_ ** _ He wiped the blood from his face onto the back of his glove. Bloodstains on leather were much more forgiving.  _ **_‘When he steps off that train, amazingly full of light!’_ ** _ He kneeled there, legs on either side of Franklin's paling body, leaning in close to his face as he dipped two fingers into the pool of red liquid that was gathering on Franklin’s chest, bringing them up to his mouth. He let his tongue dance between the leather fingertips, before sucking the gloves clean.  _ **_‘Work all day to earn his pay,”_ ** _ Danny let his head fall back at the taste of fresh blood, his breath heavy, carrying the relief of finally getting his hands on dinner.  _ **_‘So we can play all night!’_ **

Something still threw a fit in his stomach, even after bleeding two honeymooners dry. Danny had rushed the cleanup work, the smears and desperate bloody handprints dotting the hideous wallpaper nearly distracting from the almost ornate intricacy of the murder. Even though it was one of his messier jobs, he carried some pride in the execution this time around. But the mess wasn’t the matter- he was still starving. This was just the appetizer for the night. He was ready for tonight's meal. 

Fervently flipping through the notebook he had left in the passenger seat, passing blonde after blonde (with the occasional brunette boyfriend here and there), he landed on one girl. Tatum. Last names didn’t matter all too much. Almost none of these notes did, for that matter. Danny was acting on pure animal impulse, the desire to feed, destroy,  **_kill_ ** . 

The moments between the car and the club were a blur, and Danny had found himself sulking in a corner booth, his eyes not leaving the blonde girl who had just been ghosted, two booths down across the dance floor. Even though he had no real plan, you could still see the careful calculations behind his eyes.  His brows never furrowed, the corner of his mouth occasionally twitching, ruining the stone-cold facade he had always put up. 

He watched as some sleazebag tried to hit on her for a free drink, and watched him get that free drink thrown in his face.  He let himself chuckle at the moment, watching the two blondes storm out of the club, the douchebag trailing behind Tatum. 

"Two for the price of one."

Danny left a $20 bill on the table before following the pair out.

"I just wanted a drink or two, Jesus Christ!"

Danny's instinct took over, and he grabbed Tatum's arm before she could get too far. She prattled on with some line about having pepper spray, and Danny gave the best witty retort he could come up with amidst the pure, vile, hunger fogging his thought process. 

"Get your hands off her, freak!" The douchebag shouted. 

Danny took a minute to inspect the scrappy little nobody standing in front of him. He could tell he was holding back his nerves, trying not to let the switchblade shake in his hands. Danny almost wanted to take pity on him, standing there like a scared little dog. Before Danny could give it any thought, he had tossed the girl to the side and focused on the boy trying so hard to ruin his dinner. He came charging at him, Danny swatting him down without even breaking a sweat. As he watched the crucifix that was once around the blonde's neck clatter to the pavement, it all started to make more sense.

"Wow, you sure are off your game," Danny knew exactly who he was. " _ Slayer _ ."

There was a bite to how he addressed the slayer, he found entertainment in watching his face distort through every stage of anger someone could feel. Tatum didn't matter to him anymore. Now, the spotlight was on all on the slayer, and Danny was going to make sure he had fun with this one. He wasn’t like past slayers, his work was messy and every hit was impulsive. Worst of all, he didn’t have the same sense of humor as the last one. He didn’t even get a chuckle out of the stake bit, for Christ's sake. 

_ He held the hunting knife tight in his right hand, while his left wiped the blood off his chin. He had never done any holy, remarkable things in his life, if anything he’s done nothing but the exact opposite. And yet, Daniel Edward Johnson was starting to feel like god.  _


End file.
